


The sound of loneliness (makes me happier)

by art_brutal



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bandom Big Bang 2012, Community: bandombigbang, Deaf Character, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/art_brutal/pseuds/art_brutal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob is not the relationship type but something about Mikey makes him want to change all that. There are obstacles at every turn, from Gerard's overprotectiveness to massive communication issues (mostly due to Bob being a failboat). Bob has to work out what he really wants to say and how to say it to have a chance of making a relationship with Mikey work. (AU. MCR never happened. Bob is a drummer working as a sound engineer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sound of loneliness (makes me happier)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang 2012. (View on [lj](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/7916.html))
> 
> Please click the links to the lovely [art](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/7308.html) and [mix](http://art-brutal.livejournal.com/6952.html) created for this fic.
> 
> If the beginning of this fic seems familiar it's because it is expanded from a shorter fic I wrote for picfor1000. (There's no need to read it first, as this fic overrides it.) I have no personal experience of deafness but I wanted to use it to explore communication issues and have done a lot of research – hopefully well. Also, I'm a Brit and have retained British spelling and grammar throughout.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own. Title is from “Poison Oak” by Bright Eyes.
> 
> Warning: There is a small incidence of violence at the start and mentions of past abuse within a relationship.

By virtue of doing sound in The Flea Pit most nights of the week – mostly sober and with a good vantage point – Bob knows the regulars' faces, has a good sense of what is normal moshpit exuberance and what means trouble. Which is why, when on a smoke break in the alley next to the venue he sees one of the familiar scene kids backing away from two hulking, stumbling frat types, his Spidey sense starts tingling.

It's the quiet one with a nice line in sparkly belts, a mop of dirty blonde hair, a hyperactive punk friend and a different dance partner every night. The kid who, if he's honest with himself (and he's not), he tailors his between bands playlist to, trying to keep him on the dancefloor one song longer. The kid is holding his hands out in a placating manner and shaking his head. The bros are crowding him, letting off honking laughs and feinting cuffs at his head – classic schoolyard stuff. Dodging one of the sloppy strikes sends a phone flying out of the kid's hand to break against the wall and slide in pieces to the pavement.

The kid's doing pretty well to avoid their hands and keep them both in his line of sight but, with two against one, Bob knows it's not going to end well. There's no time to get the doormen from the front of the building so he braces himself and wades into the fray.

He sidles up behind the kid, who startles, then relaxes as he sees Bob and jerks his head in the direction of the one on the left, who is too busy laughing it up to even notice. Bob squares up to the one on the right and together they advance. A few swift moves and Bob gets his guy in a headlock. The kid and his target, more evenly matched, settle into a holding pattern of advances and parries.

“Security's on its way,” Bob growls into his captive's ear. “It would be much better for you and your buddy if you were gone by then. And I don't ever want to see you here again.”

He doesn't like to make use of the brawling skills he gained in high school before learning anger management techniques that actually worked, but he's not averse to using his menacing bulk when the occasion calls for it.

The guy at least has the sense not to tangle with Bob and he wheedles, defeated, “Alright, man. We're goin', we're goin'. Doug, let's bounce!”

Bob lets go and the frat guys slink off down the alley and out of sight. The kid briefly looks surprised, then slumps in relief. The tension drops out of his fighting stance and he leans against the wall as his eyes follow the guys as they disappear into the darkness. Dismay comes over his face as his gaze drops to the ground and his phone, which is now a collection of plastic and silicon confetti. He drops down into a crouch to gather up the pieces.

“My phone's back in the sound booth,” Bob says. “You can borrow it if you need to.”

The kid doesn't even acknowledge him. The adrenaline from the fight is ebbing away and Bob is all too aware of the number of minutes and seconds he has left before the current track ends and silence goes out over the P.A. System while the next band are still setting up.

“You're welcome?” he says, promptingly, to the back of the crouched kid's head, sighs and turns to leave. A hand snakes out and grabs his arm, turning him back around. The kid stands up and, with a look of intense concentration on his face, whispers “thank you” almost inaudibly.

Bob starts to ask him about what happened. Rambling, he runs his hand across his jaw, where a couple of hits landed and are starting to make their presence felt. The kid squints for a moment then sighs and turns to leave, heading for the main road rather than back into the club. Confused, Bob wants to follow the kid – he still doesn't know his name – but the countdown clock in his head is running out and the band will throw an epic hissy fit if he keeps them waiting.

~

The following night is crazy busy. It's a few hours into his stint before Bob accidentally brushes the blooming bruise on his cheekbone and automatically thinks about the mysterious kid from the night before.

He usually stays away from the scene kids. He remembers something a friend once said about cheekbones sharp enough to break hearts and reminds himself why that is: self-preservation. If he admits it to himself, this guy is definitely on his radar, but he knows it's never gonna happen.

He sees him maybe once a week watching bands playing all genres of music, usually at one of the tables near the speaker stacks, usually with that short-ass punk kid who seems to have a vendetta against the no stage diving rule, and sometimes with a pretty-looking, dark-haired guy who looks more than a little like Christina Ricci. He's undeniably hot, but Bob knows the kid is too popular for him to stand a chance so he normally doesn't let his thoughts run any further. Tonight he catches himself looking for him when he should really be paying attention to the band. 

The bassist onstage is all over the place, sharing mics with the rest of his Cure-inspired post-rock outfit, and crossing the stage so many times the feedback has feedback. It's all Bob can do to react as quickly as possible to the worst noise offences and maintain an even distortion.

When he next looks over the parapet of his booth a bottle of his favoured brand of beer is sweating on the ledge. He casts his eyes around for the responsible party and sees the kid from last night raising a similar bottle in a wary salute. Bob raises the bottle to mirror the kid's gesture then takes a sip, noticing a slip of paper underneath it.

\- Hi:)

\- I'm Mikey. I just wanted to say thanks again for helping me out last night.

“You're welcome, man,” Bob replies, looking back at the kid. “Anybody would have stepped in.”

Bob Bryar would be blushing under the intensity of the kid's – Mikey's – gaze, if he did that sort of thing. Mikey doesn't answer but steps towards him and reaches a tentative hand out to Bob's bruised face. Bob's rooted to the spot by the intensity of the kid's eyes. He braces himself for pain at the contact but it doesn't materialise. Mikey drops his hand, looks resolute and hands over another folded piece of paper. He looks tense as Bob scans the lines.

\- I'm deaf. Don't suppose you know any ASL? With my hearing aids and lip-reading I can understand speech pretty well, but it's too dark and noisy in here.

When Bob looks up again Mikey’s eyes are locked on his lips, an expression of intense concentration on his face. Mikey's starting to look apprehensive and is shuffling away from the booth when Bob realises he hasn't yet replied. His mind starts scrabbling for any useful information. ASL? He can sign “guinea pig” and a bunch of x-rated stuff, although he can't remember when he learned it. He desperately doesn't want to look like a douche in front of this guy so he quickly grabs a stray pencil and, cursing that he has to leave Mikey hanging while he does it, adds to the back of the note:

\- Want to watch the rest of the set from here? Best view in the house.

Mikey watches, upside-down, as he writes and, as he takes in the words a smile quirks across his face. Bob most certainly does not grin back like an idiot. He ushers Mikey onto the booth's one stool and turns away to attend to the levels, smiling to himself.

 

~

Between fiddling with the arcane sets of dials and sliders Bob sneaks a few looks across to Mikey, who seems engrossed by the monitors and their rows of graphic equalisers. Sure enough, when he runs his fingers through his hair, Bob sees sleekly moulded plastic curving in and behind his ears. When he catches Bob looking, Mikey pulls an old-looking mobile phone out of an impossibly tight pocket, rapidly thumbs out a text and hands it over to Bob.

\- Go on. Ask me.

Bob just looks confused. Mikey adds:

\- Ask me why I'm at a rock show when I can't hear.

Bob rolls his eyes, as if to say he wouldn't be so nosy. Sure, the thought has flitted across his mind, but he's paralysed by awkwardness at the thought of actually asking.

\- A man of few words, huh? That's usually my gig - is the reply, accompanied by a twist of Mikey's lips that could be the start of a wry smile.

The onstage mess finally stops and as the last chords die away Mikey retrieves his phone again and types:

\- Finally! The music doesn't really do much for me if it doesn't have tight rhythm section.

Bob should really go help them pack up the instruments and make sure he still has as many cables as he did this afternoon but he stays rooted to the spot, unsure what to do with the intriguing man standing right in front of him. Before he can figure how how to make the next move Mikey hands over one last note and quickly exits the booth before disappearing into the crowd.

It's a phone number.

~

Bob is at a loss as to how to proceed. People joke that he's made being laconic practically his calling card, but he talks. The people who know him, know him well enough to know that he talks when it matters. Or when he's had more than three beers. Or when the conversation's about his dogs or drumming. Or, as a few people know, when he's feeling especially well-fucked.

He's not sure what makes him so determined to talk to Mikey, an eyelinered pretty boy who is so clearly out of his league (and speaks a whole goddamn different language). It may have something to do with the way they fell into easy synchronicity to fend off those two thugs, not a word exchanged. Or it may be that he's always been fascinated by watching the kid in the crowd, swinging those pendulum hips, his t-shirt always riding a little bit too high. He agonises about it all the next day then chickens out and texts:

\- Here's my number. Just so you have it. Bob.

A reply comes back almost instantly containing Mikey's instant messenger screenname, and Bob mentally kicks himself for trying to complicate things.

~

Bob bites the bullet and creates an instant messenger account. After he plucks up the courage to sign in and add Mikey they chat a lot over the next few days, making the most of random snatches of time. He learns that Mikey has a brother (Gerard), a new kitten (Vader), a 9-5 job doing admin for an office downtown, a love of horror films and a hatred of asparagus. When he finds himself at work upping the bass levels and closing his eyes to think about feeling the reverberations through his body, he also learns that he's already fallen for him more than a little.

The whole text-based friendship is so different from his usual. He's used to it being simple: a mumbled couple of words and they’re fucking. He’s not into deep and meaningful conversation or looking for a soulmate to settle down with – he’s had a few failed long-term relationships and really doesn’t feel the need to add another to that list.

With Mikey, in theory, he should have to talk less. He should be able to pare things down to the bare essentials since they don't have the luxury of rambling phone calls or conversations. And, in theory, that should suit him fine. But on messenger he literally has to spell everything out, has to try to be witty and charismatic and everything he thought he didn’t care about being because, whether he wants them to be or not, things are different with Mikey. Mikey, who can make Bob burst out laughing with a five word text, who can express more than most people via hastily typed words with a bit of chatspeak thrown in, who made Bob go weak at the knees the first time he half-smiled in his direction.

He’s out of his depth. With the extra attention on every word, gesture or look he feels scrutinised. For Bob it’s worse than having his photo taken. But here he is, putting in far more effort than usual for a guy who may not even like him that way. When Bob stops to think about all this he can’t even explain what he’s doing, just that he feels compelled to do it.

~  
BBryar05: whats a meme?

MikeyFWay: seriously? ur from a different century bryar.

BBryar05: not all of us are computer nerds

MikeyFWay: but most of us are computer USERS

MikeyFWay: do you still use the telegram?

MikeyFWay: do you listen to the wireless?

MikeyFWay: ha ha ur so old

BBryar05: :(

MikeyFWay: so you figured out emoticons?

BBryar05: what?

MikeyFWay: nevermind ur priceless. never change

BBryar05: not planning on it

MikeyFWay: u COULD spend a bit more time on the internet

MikeyFWay: its not just for porn ;)

There’s a growing pause in typing as Bob tries to figure out how to respond. Is Mikey flirting with him or is this typical chat speak? He’s brought out of his reverie when the phone rings. Typing a quick goodbye to Mikey he manages to answer just before it goes to voicemail.

“Bryar. Where you been hiding?”

“Schechter? What? Nowhere!” Bob is nothing if not eloquent when surprised.

“I’ve got a gig for you,” Brian carries on, unfazed. “My new band – remember, I told you about them? Anyway, these kids are awesome. Their drummer, not so much. I need you to track their drum stuff for the first record until I can find a replacement.”

“Um. Yeah. I’m pretty busy but. I mean. Yes. That would be great.” As much as Bob loves doing sound, it’s been ages since he was behind a kit, and he misses it.

“Twist your arm, why don’t I? What’s got you so busy?”

“Oh, you know, just work and stuff.”

“Bob Bryar. You couldn’t shit me when you were my boyfriend and you can’t do it now. Tell uncle Bri.”  
He’s right. Of all Bob’s exes, Brian’s the only one he’s still in touch with, the one who always understood what Bob was trying to say, whether Bob could vocalise it or not.

“There’s a guy,” he admits.

“There always is. Tell me. Has he not fallen for the Bryar charm yet? Did you grunt in his direction, tell him you used to be in a famous band then expect it to end in blowjobs?”

“Fuck off. It’s not like that.” It used to be like that. “He’s different.”

“Different like a tentacled sea monster?”

“He’s deaf, ok? I don’t think ‘do you want to come back to my place to listen to my Metallica bootlegs’ is really going to work.” Even Bob realises he's whining now.

“Shit. That complicates stuff. He must really be something.”

“Yeah,” Bob replies, resignedly. “He’s pretty awesome about writing notes or texting or whatever. And we've talked a lot over the internet. It’s just different. Why can’t it just be as easy as calling him up and asking him over for a pizza, a few beers and a shitty movie?”

“Why can’t it?” Brian challenges.

“Because I can’t... he can’t... It’s hard.” Bob realises he's fooling no one, least of all himself.

“Get over it Bryar. You’re gonna have to, ‘cause from the sound of it you’re going to pursue this.”

“Yeah,” Bob half-heartedly agrees.

“You know I’m right.”

“Never.” Bob will never admit it to Brian, but at least he’s smiling now. They make plans for Bob to go to the studio then hang up.

Bob couldn’t even admit it to Brian, but talking to Mikey in person was a pretty intense experience. In the gloom of the sound booth he remembers Mikey’s eyes on his lips, all his concentration zeroed in on his face. It was all Bob could do not to duck behind his hair or turn away. He’s never been good at being the centre of attention. But at the same time he wants Mikey’s attention. The idea that Mikey was looking at him and no one else, that Mikey would spend so much time trying to understand him, even though Bob doesn't know what he did to merit it, does funny things to his stomach.

~

Between the club and the recording studio he’s barely had time to do his laundry or cook a meal. He’s figured out how to send picture messages on his phone so he fires off a few pics of his dogs or other random things to Mikey when he gets the chance but it’s a couple of days before he has enough time to sit down at his computer.

He’s getting better at typing/chatting, he thinks. His response time is quicker and having his thoughts laid out in black and white doesn’t fill him with quite so much panic. That is until he kind of momentarily forgets Mikey can’t hear like everyone else. Before then he'd carefully skirted around the topic, even though Mikey had given him more than a few ins, until there’s a lull in typing that grow and grows and Bob reverts back to his standard conversation technique: if in doubt talk about music.

MikeyFWay: don’t expect my choices to make sense  
MikeyFWay: don’t try to read into them too much  
MikeyFWay: you asked what I liked. You can’t hold it against me if it doesn’t meet your weird scoring system

BBryar05: what? I’m not that judgemental

Bob is totally that judgemental when it comes to music.

From the way Mikey is defending his choices he now feels like an ass for off-handedly asking for examples of Mikey's favourite bands. He knows that Mikey’s into music from seeing him at the club, but still hasn’t figured out how exactly that works, how much of it Mikey can hear and how to ask without sounding rude. Now he’s blundered in and all but demanded he justify himself. Bob pretty much hates himself right about now. When did he get so awkward?

Music is his usual method of profiling new friends. Growing up in bands and working on the periphery of the industry, everyone went out of their way to shout their music likes and dislikes the loudest, to wear them like badges of individuality. It would take a man stronger than Bob not to measure those tastes against his own and jump to deeply ingrained conclusions.

His messenger pings with a link from Mikey to a mix of 11 songs.

MikeyFWay: goodnight  
MikeyFWay is offline

Bob has his hands on a link to what he hopes will tell him a bit more about the guy he's falling for, but he’s worried he’s scared Mikey off in the process.

~

He plays the mix incessantly: at home, in his car, on his ipod. Trying to figure out why Mikey chose a particular 90s dance track, whether he knows all the lyrics to that Smiths song, what appeals to him about each one. Bob’s never studied anything so hard in his life.

After a couple of days and playing the mix on a continuous loop he’s lost in unwrapping the mystery that is Mikey. He’s added most of the songs to his between bands mix at the club. They work really well, having seriously danceable beats, and it gives him a small clue towards figuring out Mikey’s taste. What he doesn’t do is reply to Mikey.

At work, when he catches sight of a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair over by the bar, he realises a week has gone by since he's been in touch – more time than he can justify as being too busy to reply.

Mikey looks over, warily, a couple of times and Bob waves back as reassuringly as he can but it's half an hour of tending to the band onstage before he can actually leave the booth and approach him.

Mikey's next to the bar, facing the dark-haired Christina Ricci guy who seems to be using sign language expansively, with little regard for the physical safety of the bar's surrounding patrons. As he gets closer the guy's hands drop, his face suddenly impassive as he stares at Bob over Mikey's shoulder. Mikey looks around, confused, and when his gaze lands on Bob, he gives him a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Bob's pretty sure he has one chance to make up for his lack of contact this past week, and his lack of tact before that. He palms his cigarettes, holds them out like a peace offering and jerks his head in the direction of the exit, away from the clamour and strobe lights. Mikey turns back to his friend, who quickly signs something while looking a bit affronted, then grabs a startled Bob by the hand to lead him out.

In the same alley they met in, Bob's heart jackhammers away as he tries to think of how to begin. The familiar routine of lighting up smokes for them both and taking that first heavenly drag gives way to relief as Mikey waves his omnipresent mobile phone in front of his face.

\- didn't figure you for the type not to call

Bob looks Mikey in the eye, hoping his thoughts are more clearly readable in his face than in his whirling mind. As clearly as he can he forms the words “I'm sorry”, then reaches for his own phone to start typing. Mikey beats him to it.

\- I'm sure we can arrange a suitable punishment ;)

The accompanying smirk on his face is downright filthy. Bob is going to go right ahead and believe that, yes, this is flirting with intent. While his heart does a tentative victory dance he notes that he really needs to get back to the booth, like two minutes ago. Tapping his watch to signal to Mikey he reluctantly pushes his way back inside and through the crowd as quickly as possible, struggling to focus on the task ahead when all he wants to do is finish his conversation.

Luckily the headline act are famous enough to have their own sound guy with them. After Bob lays down the rules about his board, and reiterates several more times the one about not having liquids within a six foot radius of it (even if he breaks that rule himself), he's free to mingle front of house.

He tracks Mikey down to a side table where he's still talking to the dark-haired guy from before, the one who seems to have decided Bob is The Devil. Bob thinks this is particularly unfair since he hasn't even had the chance to be a jackass to this guy in person yet. Mikey sees him first and gestures to the remaining empty seat, pointedly looking directly at Bob and not at his friend's attempts to catch his attention. He makes the universal sign for “drink?” and when Bob nods, gets up to go to the bar. Grouchy Friend puts a hand on Mikey's arm and makes a frowny face with Raised Eyebrows of Deep Meaning at him before being shaken free as Mikey carries on with his drink-fetching mission. Bob inadvertently chuckles at the brush off and finds himself on the receiving end of an appraising stare.

“So you're Bob,” Grouchy starts.

“Yup.”

“I'm Gerard.”

“Okay.”

Bob feels like he should make a little more effort, but Gerard isn't exactly making it easy.

Gerard's glare softens for a moment.

“I wanna thank you for what you did for my brother that night. Helping out with those guys?” he says.

“Oh... No... Anyone would have,” Bob falters, startled at the tack the conversation is taking.

“They wouldn't. They don't. Mikey's pretty scrappy. He can take care of himself. But this one time, I'm glad you stepped in.”

“He was doing pretty well on his own,” Bob agrees. “I just evened it up a bit.”

“Well, thanks. But it won't happen again. I'll make sure of it. So you can go back to being the sound guy and stop playing bodyguard.”

The glare is back, full strength and Bob is shocked by Gerard's tone. He doesn't expect eternal gratitude or anything, but he does expect to not be chastised for helping someone out then engaging in an awkward, semi-flirtation with him afterwards like the consenting adults they both are. He has hopes that Mikey has forgiven him his social faux pas and that they can continue inching towards, well, something, in which case it would be useful to have his brother on side.

Mikey arrives back with the drinks just as Bob is trying to think of something neutral to say to appease Gerard. He nods his thanks to Mikey for the beer and they settle into a three-way conversation in which Gerard's reluctance to warm to Bob doesn't stop him faithfully translating everything in and out of sign language for Mikey's benefit. Well, Bob assumes the translations are accurate – there haven't been any confused looks or thrown punches to suggest otherwise.

They stick to obvious topics – gigs Bob has seen them attend at the Flea Pit, other bands they've all seen play locally, a few scene regulars and that 24-hour diner down the street that serves the best end-of-the-night waffles at 3am. It takes a bit of getting used to, the way everything is being relayed through Gerard, until Bob finds himself relaxing into the new rhythm of the conversation. He's impressed, which seems to be his default reaction around Mikey, by the way he manages to be far more socially adept than Bob's stumbling attempts at small talk. Mikey's charm, easy banter and those quirks of the lips that occasionally make it all the way into a smile have a dizzying effect on Bob.

When Gerard takes a bathroom break and Bob is left alone with Mikey, he really notices how the conversation becomes more static, although at least he only has to worry about impressing Mikey and not a brother who seems predisposed to hate him.

“I really liked your mixtape,” he blurts, trying desperately to keep things moving. He realises his mistake and grab for his phone to type it instead but Mikey waves him off, and beats him to typing a message anyway.

\- I got it. Thanks.

And then:

\- go on then. I know you still want to ask me

This time Bob caves into curiosity and types back:

-With listening to music. How does that work for you?

Mikey bites his lip and appears to think for a minute, then spends a few more typing out a long message.

\- it's all vibrations, right? you detect them with your ears and translate them into sound. i feel them everywhere and translate them into what I know as sound. i can pick out bass lines and drum beats fairly easily. my hearing aids help me pick up a bit more, but they tend to distort stuff. for the lyrics i have to read them first. music's about more than just what's in your ears, but i think it's like that for everyone – it's a certain mood, or a lyric that fits your thoughts perfectly, or the energy of you and hundreds of other people at a gig, experiencing the same thing at the same time, with the crowd feeding off the band and the band reacting back. its pretty fucking special. does that help?

\- I couldn't have put it better myself - Bob returns with a smile that, on anyone else, would be described as “adorable”.

There's a loud crash as a flurry of limbs, tattoos and hair dye that Bob recognises as Mikey's punk friend lands in their midst, Gerard not far behind. The interloper and Mikey exchange some sort of enthusiastic hug/gang sign combo followed by a rapid fire signed conversation. Bob looks on confused until he looks at Gerard for help.

“That's Frank,” is all the explanation he gets before Gerard joins their conversation and Bob is left fiddling with his drink for lack of a better option. Suddenly Frank, still draped halfway across Mikey, leans towards him and bangs a fist on the table, making Bob's eyes leap to him. Gerard cuts in to do the introductions, signing as he speaks like he'd been doing earlier in the evening.

Bob's hoping to make a better impression on this obviously close friend of Mikey's. He starts to ask him about a spectacularly painful looking stage dive he saw him perform the last time he was in the club, but Frank cuts him off by making a gesture that Bob's pretty sure means he's deaf, too. He's not trying to be an asshole, but he does mentally sigh as he realises that winning over Frank's probably going to be harder than he first thought.

He also realises that the balance of those who can sign to those who can't has shifted further, leaving him in the extreme minority. He hopes that Gerard will continue to keep him up to speed, finding it more than a little uncomfortable that he has to rely on him so much. The topic of conversation has moved onto some guy that Frank has a problem with, who it seems did something to offend one of his female friends. Or perhaps girlfriend? Bob's not sure. He doesn't know the situation or any of the people involved so it's not like he can participate, no matter what language it's in. He follows as best he can from Gerard's narration and explanations until Frank runs out of steam and Bob becomes confident that the girl in the story is definitely not his girlfriend since Frank has gravitated to Gerard's lap and the two of them are engaged in some energetic kissing, Mikey and Bob seemingly forgotten.

Mikey rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone.

\- they don't usually last even this long. I love them both but it's not something a brother needs to see

With Mikey's attention focused back on him, Bob manages to restart their conversation and, without over-protective brothers and feeling linguistically challenged, he begins to relax.

In fact it's all going swimmingly (or at least not so badly that Bob wants to bang his head off the table) until Bob realises he's been rambling for nearly 15 solid minutes about his passion for drumming. He doesn't even know how the conversation even got around to that topic so fast. While Bob will happily debate drum theory and technique at length, it usually takes him longer to admit that drumming moves him in ways that sound engineering just can't.

He abruptly silences himself when it hits him that it's at least insensitive and at most totally rude to be evangelicising to Mikey about the immense joy that can only be felt while creating music. Mikey frowns as Bob sputters an excuse about getting back to the sound booth and starts to back away from the table. Gerard tears himself away from Frank, and his previously cautious hostility devolves into an icy glare. Bob can practically hear him thinking “See. I knew you would screw this up.”

Bob, well, he hides in the toilets – there's no other, less embarrassing and more manly way to describe it – until he hears the dying strains of the headliners' encore and can legitimately go back to the safety of his booth. Sequestered amongst the knobs, dials and sliders that never seem to mind his poor communication skills he berates himself for the latest screw up.

He tries to convince himself that it isn't because Mikey is deaf that Bob has ended up acting like a total idiot. He rationalises that making new friends is always a painful experience for him, hence a track record of one-night stands that don't involve a lot of talking. When he calms down enough to think back over the aborted conversation, he realises that Mikey did, in fact, look interested in what he had to say about drumming. The feeling that he'd said something wrong was probably just that – a feeling that had no basis in reality. And his jitteriness probably wasn't helped by the presence of a disapproving Gerard, who made him feel like every word he uttered was being judged. He's just getting over worrying about being inadvertently rude to Mikey and coming around to worrying about ditching him mid-conversation when his phone rumbles in his pocket.

\- Did Gee scare you off? He's a pussycat. I promise :)

Bob feels like he should explain what he was really thinking but can barely articulate it to himself so he opts to hide behind the readily available lie: that he left because of Gerard's chilly welcome. He's pretty sure that he's wearing thin his supply of chances from Mikey and hastily types back:

\- Coffee 2morrow? Just u and me?

Now all he has to do is not ruin it.

~

Bob hovers outside the alcove next to the Starbucks' entrance. He's three cigarettes into the six that it will take to make up the time until Mikey is due to arrive. “Assuming he's on time. Assuming he shows up at all,” Bob's head helpfully supplies.

He's anxious to prove to Mikey that he is capable of acting like a normal (and dateable) human being, although he knows he hasn't shown much evidence of that yet. He was up until the small hours of the morning looking up ASL on the internet, trying to find something useful. He has the alphabet mostly down now and has practiced spelling his name, which is mercifully easy, and Mikey's. He tried to memorise some basic words and phrases – the usual conversation starters like “how are you?” – but doesn't know if he even came close to performing them correctly.

Somewhere around the seventh cigarette, lit from the butt of the previous one, he spots a familiar shape ambling towards him. Mikey's head is bowed as he texts and walks, with some sort of extra-sensory navigation allowing him to skirt around everything in his path without even looking. By this point Bob is practically hyperventilating, partially from all the nicotine and partially from how much he wants the next hour – his first real date in years – to go well.

Mikey looks up and smiles, squinting in the sunlight, and Bob realises it's the first time he's seen him during daylight hours. There's a momentary pang of worry as he realises that even in the camouflage of strobe lighting, he rarely has the guts to try it on with a guy that hot. He wills his breathing to slow down, pastes on what he hopes is a confident smile and opens the door for Mikey to step through.

They join the back of the ridiculously long queue and Bob starts phase one of his Plan To Woo Mikey. He has a notepad in his back pocket, his phone already on the text screen and is absolutely ready to show Mikey that he can vault the communication barrier. Mikey's frowning at the long line and drumming on the counter, as if impatient to get at the coffee. Bob taps him on the arm and, when he turns round, fingerspells “hello”. Mikey smiles as he spells back “hi” and Bob mentally awards himself one point. With a calculated look on his face, Mikey makes a couple of gestures that leave Bob totally confused. Floundering, he starts speaking rapidly:

“I don't really know any real sign language. I just looked up the alphabet and some easy stuff. Although I can't seem to remember much of it right now.”

Aware that he's mumbling, Bob cuts himself off as Mikey's already looking down and hammering a message out on his phone:

\- ? Didn't catch most of that.

Bob fights the rising flush on his face and mentally minuses his one point (and at least five more) as he types back:

\- sorry. I can't do proper sign language. Just the alphabet.

\- i didnt really expect you to know any

\- I'm trying to learn some

Mikey shrugs. Bob wonders if this is something he's told a lot, but that rarely goes any further.

\- you can talk to me here, you know. as long as i can see ur pretty face

“What do you want to drink? It's on me since I asked you here,” Bob over-enunciates slowly.

Mikey rolls his eyes and types:

\- just talk normally but clearly. u look like an idiot

As Bob flushes scarlet he adds:

\- a grande vanilla soy latte :)

“Coming right up,” Bob recovers enough to say.

They finally make it to the front of the line without Mikey leaping over the counter to grab at the coffee beans, as he seems to want to do, and without Bob literally dying from embarrassment, as he is fearing is possible.

The scruffy-looking barista looks up from his till and Mikey immediately leans over the counter for an almost-hug. The two of them begin quickly signing at each other in a stop/start kind of way, the barista adding in a lot of flappy hands and comically enthusiastic facial expressions, which, at one point, lead Mikey to guffaw loudly. After a couple of minutes of animated interaction the barista waves at Bob and signs something.  
“Oh, hey no, I don't know how to do that,” Bob explains inelegantly.

“I'm Jon,” the barista says, unfazed. “Any friend of Mikey's, and all that. What can I get you?”

Bob orders his black house blend and is immediately lost again as Jon and Mikey resume their improvised sign language. In the midst of it Jon actually passes their orders on to be made up and Mikey ends up paying for the drinks as Bob can't find a good time to butt in.

After Mikey finally gets his hands on their coffees he leads them to a remote corner table far away from the chatter of the queue. He makes positively sexual noises at the first sip from his humongous cup and passes his phone over to Bob:

\- sorry - I didn't mean to leave you out back there. I've been coming here for ages and Jon's been learning a little asl for me

\- He's obviously the Best Barista Ever

Bob wonders if his sarcasm is obvious. Apparently it is and he gets to see Mikey's face crumple into a slight frown. It's not Mikey's fault that some coffee house worker is better at learning to talk to him than Bob is, so he tries to backtrack:

\- I mean, that's a really nice thing for him to do.

\- Yeah well he doesn't seem to mind making an effort

Mikey's words sting even if they weren't meant to and Bob wants to explain that he's actually really, really trying, but that will only make his failed attempts look even more pathetic.

~

They spend about an hour together, in total, mostly making inconsequential small talk until Mikey says he has to go. Bob can't blame him. All he's done is act like a weirdo around Mikey, potentially offending him in a number of ways and lurching from one instance of awkwardness to another. Bob is already wondering what the possibility is of Mikey (and, shit, his brother) never coming back to the Flea Pit again, meaning that he won't have to dig a tunnel out from the sound booth to avoid an awkward encounter (or perhaps a knee-capping).

Later at home, as he snuggles with his dogs and enjoys their uncomplicated affection, he considers calling up Brian so that he can get some sympathy (or, more likely, be yelled at for acting like a moron) when his messenger pings.

MikeyFWay: So, I like you. And I'm pretty sure you like me too

BBryar05: OK. Yeah, you can be sure that I do

MikeyFWay: so what I don't get is - why was that the worst date ever?

BBryar05: I'm sorry. It was my fault it was bad

MikeyFWay: can you stop apologising? and just tell me what's wrong

BBryar05: it's kinda complicated. As in I don't know where to start

MikeyFWay: is it cause I'm deaf?  
MikeyFWay: i've dated a couple of hearing guys in the past. I know it can be tricky to get past the language thing  
MikeyFWay: but i think you're worth it. and I thought you were the type to try

BBryar05: I am trying. Just not very well apparently

MikeyFWay: Im still here aren't i?

BBryar05: I don't know why

MikeyFWay: Like I said, I like you. And it's been a while since I've liked somebody enough to try.  
MikeyFWay: If you decide it's worth it, come find me.  
MikeyFWay is offline.

~

“You're a fucking idiot.” This is pretty much what Bob expected from Brian. Oddly, being chastised makes him feel a little bit better, sort of like penance.

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Um, I don't know. What can I do? I've pretty much screwed up every chance I had with this guy.”

“Bob Bryar. If you don't get your shit together and make some monu-fucking-mental effort to keep this guy in your life I will drive my ass over to your apartment and kick yours all over the pavement.”

Bob knows this is no idle threat and yet he risks life and limb by arguing. He knows he's whining but he can't seem to help it.

“Bri, did you not hear how many chances I've blown through? I can't believe this guy is still talking to me after I've spent so much time convincing him I'm a prize jackass.”

“And yet,” Brian says, in a voice that says he knows he's already won the argument. “He's still talking to you.”

“I guess... ”

“Bob. You are calling me up in the middle of the goddamn night to angst about a guy. I haven't heard you this hung up about anyone since... well, it's been a long fucking time. You owe it to yourself to stop being a wuss and take a chance that this might actually work.”

Bob sighs. It's scary how Brian can see right inside his head, and he spares a moment to regret that things didn't work out between them. He knows he's been coasting for the past few years, pretending that a few one-off fucks with guys he didn't care about (and who didn't care about him) is enough. When he thinks about Mikey, he thinks about his quick wit, ridiculous hair, dazzling full smile that only gets pulled out on rare occasions and, luckily, huge reserves of patience. Here is someone whom he wants to know – all of his secrets, his prides, his embarrassments – and he wants Mikey to know him. It's a dizzying and scary and unfamiliar feeling but he knows it's important enough not to let miscommunications and uncertainty get in the way. Now, if he can only convince Mikey that he's serious.

“Bob?” Brian questions.

“Yeah, I'm here. Just working a few things out.”

“It's about time. So what are you gonna do?”

“I was hoping you would be able to help me out in that department.”

“What would you do without me?” Bob can hear the smirk in his voice. “Well, I do have one idea... ”

~

Writing a letter to Mikey ranks as the third hardest thing Bob has ever done. It's up there with persuading Brian to go into rehab and reading the eulogy at his father's funeral.

He curses Brian as he tries to pour onto paper everything that he's been trying to say but has managed to get jumbled and confused by the time it reaches Mikey. Words have never been Bob's friends but he knows he has to get this right, and a letter is his best chance at doing that.

~

In the last 16 hours Bob has checked his email about 75 times. Since starting work he's taken his phone out of his pocket to check for new messages, even thought he would be able to feel it vibrating through his jeans, about 300 times. He's looked over towards the entrance of the bar approximately 7 billion times in the last hour. Which is why it's impossible that Mikey can be sitting in the sound booth waiting for him when he gets back from a trip to the toilet. But then Mikey has already done the most impossible thing and changed Bob's life completely.

Fear steels through Bob as he notices the piece of paper clutched in Mikey's hand. He can see enough of the words to make out the familiar paragraphs of the email he spent so many hours agonising over. But Mikey is smiling so widely that Bob's insecurities are blown away. He can't help return the megawatt grin and ends up standing like a fool, smiling at Mikey across the booth, until Mikey reaches out a hand and pulls him forwards. Before Bob can think, Mikey's hands are on the sides of his face, fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck as he pulls him in for their first kiss. It's deep and breathy and perfect. Bob's pretty damn sure it means Mikey liked the letter and he sends a silent prayer of thanks to Brian for the excellent plan. When Mikey pulls back, Bob mourns the loss and feels off balance. Then Mikey leans in again, gently pushes Bob's hair back and, with a soft press of his lips to Bob's ear, whispers “thank you”. When he shifts back and their eyes lock, Bob feels like he's back on firm ground, he knows that everything's going to be okay.

Suddenly Mikey gets a playful look in his eye, breaking the moment. He steps back to dig his new phone out of another pair of unbelievably tights jeans and asks

\- are you playing my song, Bob Bryar?

Bob shrugs. He's been playing each song from Mikey's mixtape every night, every second that the live acts aren't performing. The bar staff and the lighting guy have been shooting him weird looks and he's amazed Chuck, the owner, hasn't pulled him up on it yet.

\- the bass feels pretty loud. wont u get in trouble?

Bob takes the phone from his hand and erases the message to type back:  
\- you're worth it Mikey Way  
There's another round of goofy grins until Bob's abandoned walkie-talkie crackles into life, reminding him that he has an actual job to do, and he offers Mikey the booth's only seat. Mikey shakes his head and points to the full dance floor, leaving Bob with a brief parting kiss that promises more.

~

Frank joins Mikey on the dance floor while the night's hardcore band screams its way through a bunch of songs about... trench warfare? – Bob's not sure he understands their concept all that well. It's getting really hard to pay attention while Mikey is making full use of his lithe hips. His arm is draped around some freakishly tall Hispanic-looking guy. The pose isn't overtly sexual but Bob feels an enjoyable little pang of jealousy and something in his pants stirs as he imagines being the recipient of the contact.

As usual, Frank is all over the place, a whirling dervish of energy tearing through and over the pit. The fact that he's moving so fast he's nearly a blur is probably what prevents him from breaking bones out there in the midst of the band's most ardent (and violent) fans. Bob never would have guessed that Frank had anything less than perfect hearing, the way he seems to be in symbiosis with the music, and wonders if being deaf is what prompts him to interact with it in such a physical way.

All thoughts of Frank disappear when he receives a text from Mikey asking him to share a smoke break. Bob texts back with details of when he'll be able to leave the booth unattended for a few minutes and, at the allotted time, he waits in that same alley, away from where the club's other smoking patrons are corralled. If Bob was the sentimental type he would be beginning to think of it as their alleyway.

The grin on Mikey's face as he approaches is almost predatory. Passing under the lone street lamp his skin glistens with a fine sheen of sweat and with his hair mussed up he looks positively post-coital. Bob's spending a huge amount of energy reminding himself he only has a few minutes to spare here.

Mikey crowds into his personal space, placing his hands on the wall on either side of Bob's head. He leans in and licks at the corner of Bob's mouth before Bob opens up and they kiss heatedly until their breathing becomes ragged. Mikey presses even closer and Bob can feel that they are both on the same page in terms of arousal. He's sure that if they did give in to the urge to deal with their attraction it wouldn't take long to finish, at least it wouldn't for Bob and he can only assume Mikey is as close from the hitching of his breath and seemingly unconscious, shallow thrusts of his hips.

Bringing his hands up to cup Mikey's face he determines to keep up the kissing while using the remaining 5% of his brain that is left over to debate how far they can go in a dingy alley with only minutes to play with. This close, he realises it's too dark to see Mikey's expression clearly and that clinches it for him. Back when his sexual partners were picked up in bars and clubs for one night of physical release (on both their parts) then discarded (on both their parts), the whole sordid encounter could go by without talking. They weren't silent: exhales were huffed out, flesh slapped against sweaty flesh, moans escaped when the right spots were pressed, and nonsense litanies were chanted as orgasm neared, and there was that one guy who did a weird countdown thing (but the less said about him the better). But with Mikey, Bob doesn't want to miss a thing.

Mikey lightly bites Bob's bottom lip, tugging gently at the lip ring with his teeth, which makes Bob realise that he's stopped kissing back. He wants to explain his recent thoughts to Mikey but that would require typing or scribbling out a message in the near-dark and he only has seconds now, not minutes, to spend in the alley. Kissing Mikey once on the cheek he pushes away from the wall, points to his watch and runs back inside.

When Bob gets back to the booth, bounding through the curtain and reaching the board just in time to keep the music running, he realises neither of them actually had a cigarette.

Juggling the sound board's demands and his phone he hastily texts Mikey:

\- are you as frustrated as I am right now?

\- fuck yeah!

\- do you want to come over to my place after I finish work?

\- so much. but i have to drive Frank's drunk ass home

Bob groans when he reads this. The idea of sitting in the sound booth so turned on for the rest of his shift is frankly embarrassing. Some manual relief is going to be necessary when he gets home.

The best he can come up with is:

\- rain check? soon? I'm not working tomorrow night

\- tomorrow's Movie Night. its kind of a thing. you should come. i'll email you the details.

~

Bob can't wait until the next night. Now that he and Mikey are edging closer to being on the same page he doesn't want to let the momentum drop. And, of course, there's the small matter of his arousal, which was piqued by the earlier alleyway kissing and refuses to be ignored.

When he gets home from what seems like the world's longest shift, he signs into messenger hoping that Mikey will be in a similar state of wakefulness. He is.

MikeyFWay: couldn't wait til tomorrow?

BBryar05: guess not :)

BBryar05: I really want to finish what we started

MikeyFWay: finish?

BBryar05: well, continue

MikeyFWay: me too. for sure. just  
MikeyFWay: i like you - u know that  
MikeyFWay: just. i don't want things moving too fast

Bob feels this is a reasonable request. For all his desire to jump Mikey's bones and never let him go, he realises that he's been doing a pretty shitty job so far of being consistent. He's feeling a bit more reassured that Mikey likes him back but has no idea why – he could have his pick of any of the gay guys at the club, and probably a decent number of the ostensibly straight ones, too.

Not that he'd admit it, but the idea that he even wants such a relationship – one with long, leisurely breakfasts, meeting the parents, seeing each other every day, being the first to know about new stuff happening in their lives – is more than a little scary. If Mikey wants to take it slow, Bob's more than happy to comply. He'd do anything not to screw this up, now that he's managed to convince Mikey that he's not a complete disaster.

With a newfound confidence borne out of knowing Mikey is invested in this, he resolves to be more forthright: no more letting worries turn into problems by thinking about them too much.

BBryar05: can I ask why?

MikeyFWay: u can always ask. u should always ask  
MikeyFWay: i know it's hard to get used to - writing notes and all that  
MikeyFWay: it's even harder if we're not honest with each other  
MikeyFWay: trust me

BBryar05: sounds like experience talking?

MikeyFWay: yeah. that's what i meant about taking it slow  
MikeyFWay: it takes a bit of effort to talk to me  
MikeyFWay: some people have found it to be too much  
MikeyFWay: im not asking you to make promises  
MikeyFWay: just don't get into this if ur not willing to at least try

Bob wants to answer as honestly as possible, so he takes a minute to think about his reply. It's true that the whole situation freaked him out at first and he managed to make it unnecessarily difficult, in the process almost losing the chance to pursue Mikey. If he's honest with himself, he would be this awkward with anyone he like liked and wanted more than no-strings sexy times with. It's practically Mikey's fault for being so damn desirable, but Bob doesn't think that's going to fly as an argument.

MikeyFWay: u still there?

BBryar05: yeah. I'm in. I know haven't been great at this. It sounds dumb but I'm only screwing up because I want this to work so bad 

MikeyFWay: i think i get it

BBryar05: how are you so good at this?

MikeyFWay: if stuff's bothering u - just tell me. talk, mime, write, type, hire a skywriter if u have to, just don't leave me hanging

BBryar05: that I can do :)

MikeyFWay: awesome, bobbryar, awesome.

Bob totally isn't blushing.

BBryar05: so, movie night?

MikeyFWay: Movie Night. It's usually me, Gee, Frank and a few other guys.  
MikeyFWay: we're supposed to take turns picking the movie. but Frank always wants horror and Gee can't say no to him

BBryar05: can i bring anything?

MikeyFWay: anything except alcohol

~

Bob's glad that he's managed to put aside his fear-inspired bullshit to make it work with Mikey. Even if he is a little (or a lot) terrified of meeting his friends, never mind seeing Gerard again.

He rings the doorbell on an innocuous-looking wooden house (with a porch and everything) and fidgets on the creaky decking underfoot. When he's just about convinced himself that this can only end terribly, Mikey finally answers the door. Dressed in a massive band hoodie he looks more relaxed than Bob has ever seen him. Bob tries to hand over the bag of pecan-flavoured coffee beans he brought in lieu of a six-pack when he realises Mikey already has his hands full with a tiny black kitten. Mikey holds the kitten out to him like an offering and raises his eyebrows. Bob is not ashamed to admit he's powerless in the face of baby animals and a sentimental smile grows on his face as he nods at Mikey and they manage to swap their bundles over. Bob mentally snorts at the fact that Mikey looks as enamoured with the beans as he did with the kitty.

He follows Mikey down a hallway with art lining every inch of wallspace and into the tv room, where he recognises Frank and Gerard. Both are crammed into one arm chair, which, even though neither of them is massive, can't be comfortable. The other armchair is occupied by a massive 'fro and under it a friendly-looking guy who waves and introduces himself as Ray, both signing and speaking. Bob waves back, unsure as to whether Ray can hear him or not.

He's trying to figure out a tactful way to ask when Frank comes bounding over.

“Hi,” he says, looking like Bob's the person he most wanted to see in the world at that second. Bob thinks Gerard's a lucky man if he gets someone looking at him like that. It's such a contrast to the way Gerard is holding himself back. All he's done is incline his head slightly towards Bob, as if to say “I'll be civil to you in my house but don't expect us to be best friends”.

Frank makes grabby motions at the kitten. Bob hands over the squirming bundle of fur as Mikey tugs his arm and leads him through to the kitchen, where he types up and offers a text:

\- looks like it's just the five of us tonight. Ray's a good guy. u'll like him

“Is he... ” Bob starts, but Mikey figures out the question and starts typing.

\- he's hearing, but we grew up together so he signs fluently. everyone's so used to signing, if we forget around u, just give me a kick, ok?

It reminds Bob that once again he's the one in the minority, that it's not just him making accommodations for Mikey, all his friends have to make an effort for Bob, too. It sits a little uneasily with him – Bob doesn't like to ask anyone for anything. Sure enough, he's been spending more time online trying to memorise signs but it's slow going. Languages have never been his thing and feels like he fumbling in the dark but it's clearly going to be something he has to stick with if he wants things to work with Mikey, and he knows he does.

Mikey gestures to the available selection of drinks with a flourish and Bob picks out a Dr. Pepper. After he hands it over, Bob signs a “thank you” at him. Mikey, looking pleased and a little surprised, returns a “you're welcome” and leads him back to the tv room.

There's some sort of heated debate going on.

“Frankie!” Gerard says/signs. “You can't watch the Dawn of the Dead remake and then the original. It makes no sense. It's against the natural order.”

“Cause zombies are so natural,” Frank huffs in reply as well as signing for Mikey's benefit. “The remake blows. Let's get it out the way first.”

It takes Bob a second to parse Frank's speech – it's not totally clear, but mostly understandable.

Ray waves to get Frank's attention.

“If it blows so much, why are we even watching it?”

“Cause... ” Frank doesn't have an answer. He looks appealingly at Gerard, who holds up his hands in a “search me” kind of way.

“How about we just watch the far superior original for, like, the eighth time,” Ray says reasonably. “ And pair it with Shawn of the Dead, which none of us have seen yet?”

Frank looks like he's about to launch into explaining exactly why that's a bad idea when he stops short.

“Actually, actually that's a good idea.”

Bob sneaks a peak over at Mikey who is leaning against the wall, a slight smirk on his face as if this argument is a regular occurence at Movie Night.

“Bob, what do you think?” Ray pulls his attention back to the conversation.

“I haven't seen any of them,” he admits, trying to face both Mikey and Frank, but not quite managing it. Ray picks up the slack, signing his words.

Franks lets out a horrified shriek:

“In that case, definitely the original. You'll love it, Bob,” he aims one of his winning smiles at Bob then busies himself setting up the dvd player while Mikey pulls Bob down next to him on the couch, pressing closer to him than the space necessitates.

~

As the credits roll Bob looks down and is surprised to find his hand in Mikey's. He's not sure how it escaped his notice since the overhead lights are still bright enough to facilitate signing and lipreading. The lights and the subtitles on the film are the only concessions to the audience. In all other respects it feels to Bob like a normal night hanging with friends, something he's surprised at since it normally takes him longer to feel comfortable with a group of strangers. He gets a little glow out of the fact that Mikey's totally not a stranger now. A goofy grin makes its way onto his face as he thinks about how the hottest, the smartest, the funniest, most charming guy – whom he lusted after for months from behind the sound booth walls – is in his life.

Gerard gets up from his position curled around Frank and the now-sleeping kitten and stretches expansively. He signs something briefly, but since he doesn't vocalise it Bob has no idea what he's said.

The result is a clamour of “hell yeahs” and a flurry of hands from the rest of the guys. Bob doesn't have a clue what they're talking about. Suddenly all eyes are on him as Ray signs/speaks:

“Hey, Bob, that alright with you?”

When he sees Bob's bewildered look he quickly supplies:

“Pizza. We were going to order pizza.” Then “sorry”, sounding genuinely apologetic.

Bob kind of freezes with all attention on him. He can see Gerard's narrowed expression. Frank doesn't look too perturbed and Bob guesses he's used to negotiating such communication glitches. Ray looks like he has to tell Frank he's stepped on the kitten. Bob squirms under their gazes and turns to the one that matters most. Mikey's looking sheepishly at him. He makes the same sign that Ray did when he was apologising. Bob catches on and slowly spells out “it's fine”. Mikey looks relieved and goes to twine their fingers together again but Bob points to the hallway and mouths “bathroom”.

He really just needs to get out of there for a minute so he slips away to get a better look at the amazing comic book-style artworks he noticed earlier in the hall. They really are great – bold and slightly sinister. He looks a little closer and notices that one of the recurring characters has a striking similarity to Mikey, then he sees one that looks like Frank with Xs on his eyes, and he's pretty sure that's Ray's 'fro atop a cyborg.

He turns around when he hears steps behind him and, pointing at the pictures, starts to ask Ray:

“Hey, is that-”

“Yup. Gee's pretty damn talented.”

Bob gathers his courage. “Do you think that talent extends to giving me a break?”

Ray looks pained, and Bob immediately feels bad for putting him in the middle of this. He's about to cut him loose of the conversation and mentally berate himself for trying to alienate another of Mikey's friends when he's only just met him, when Ray starts:

“It's not been easy on either of them. I'm not trying to make excuses but there's things you gotta understand. Gee's been through some tough times, which are his to tell you about, not mine. And although he's always tried to look out for Mikey, I guess he feels he didn't always do such a good job. One of Mikey's exes. Well, let's just say he wasn't an iota of what Mikey deserves. He was pretty mean. And Gerard, he feels like he should have done more, seen it sooner. Mikey hasn't brought anyone home with him in a while, so you can see how Gee would want to make especially sure this time, that you're good enough for his brother.”

Bob can understand that. It makes him glad that someone is looking out for Mikey so fiercely, even if it does give him extra hurdles to jump over.

“If it's any consolation,” Ray rests a hand on Bob's shoulder, “Frank really likes you, I can tell, which means it's only a matter of time until Gerard comes round. And I don't think you're a terrible person.”

They share a warm smile and Bob thinks, “Yeah, tonight might turn out ok after all.”

~

While they wait for the pizza Mikey and Bob go to the kitchen to restock everyone's caffeinated beverage of choice. Something's been confusing Bob and he figures now is as good a time as any to ask.

“Why don’t you talk?” Bob asks when he has Mikey's attention, priding himself for being brave enough to act on his curiosity.

“I do. I am,” Mikey spells out slowly, eyes narrowed.

Bob rolls his eyes. “You know I meant with your mouth.” He makes a vague flappy gesture at his own mouth.

“I can’t,” Mikey spells, face inscrutable, and leaves the kitchen, heading in the direction of the tv room. Bob's stomach feels hollow. He knows Mikey told him to be honest, but he's wondering if this is subject is off-limits.

He catches a movement in the corner of his vision and sees Gerard leaning against the other door frame. He doesn't know how long he’s been standing there, but he doesn’t look very happy.

“It’s hard for him, you know?” Gerard starts. He's less hostile than Bob expects. “Did he tell you about losing his hearing?”

Bob shakes his head.

“He was 15, so he still remembers how to speak and everything, but can you imagine trying to talk and not knowing if you’re mispronouncing words or being too loud? It takes a lot of concentration and he’s not willing to do that for most people.” Gerard looks fiercer than Bob has ever imagined he could look. “You’d be a special kind of jackass if you tried to make him.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bob says solemnly.

“Good.” Gerard’s look softens then turns slightly sad. “Because he won’t talk like that. Not even to-”

“But he did!” Bob blurts, before he can mentally kick the off switch in his brain. “He has. To me, at least a little.”

Gerard’s sad expression flickers a little stronger. He looks at Bob appraisingly and Bob is about to try and say something, anything to make the situation better, coming up with nothing (“this is why you’re not a big talker,” he thinks wryly to himself), when Gerard seems to make a decision.

“Just promise you won’t hurt him?” Gerard looks deathly serious and Bob knows he has to be honest.

“I don’t plan on ever hurting Mikey.” That's the best he can do. He has no intention of hurting the man but can’t help worry that he’ll end up doing something monstrously stupid anyway.

“That’ll have to be good enough. Come on, let's get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Bob calls as Gerard crosses the kitchen to leave. “I’ve been looking at sign language stuff on the internet but I’m pretty hopeless at it. Don’t even know where to start. Can you... ? Would you... ?”

Gerard’s face lights up in the first real smile Bob has had the pleasure to receive from him and it makes something unclench in his chest.

“Come on. We'll go to my room and I’ll lend you some books and get you started with some basics.”

Following him out of the room, Bob knows he’s passed a test.

~

“No, no like this,” Gerard repositions Bob's fingers for what seems like the twentieth time.

“Fuck,” he sighs, “I really suck at this.”

“Hey, come on. Learning a language is never quick and easy. You'll get there if you put the work in.”

Bob's about to ask him to show him that last sign again when the he hears the doorbell ring and simultaneously the lights start to flash, and he realises it's for Mikey's benefit.

“Come on,” Gerard says, making for the door. “We're going to miss the pizza. Mikey's skinny but the fucker can eat.”

They head back to the tv room where the pizza boxes have been piled on the coffee table with a mountain of napkins.

“We got cheese, pepperoni and Frank's weird cheeseless tofurkey-covered vegan abomination” Ray signs and says. “Dig in.”

“Hey,” squawks an indignant Frank, smacking Ray on the arm.

Mikey walks into the ensuing scramble as Ray is putting Frank's pizza on a shelf that the vertically-challenged one has no hope of reaching. He signs “what's going on?” and Bob's insanely proud that he not only understood, but can convey, if slowly and clumsily and having to spell out most of the words that Frank is being punished for crimes against pizza. Mikey outright giggles and beams in Bob's direction. Bob's pretty sure he's been forgiven for before.

“I hate to break up the love fest,” and Gerard actually does look regretful, “but some of us have jobs to go to in the morning. Can we start the movie now?”

Ray relinquishes Frank's pizza and they settle in for the second film.

Mikey is tangled around Bob, his hands buried under Bob's hoodie. By the time the zombie apocalypse has spread across London and things are looking pretty bad for Shawn, his head has lolled onto Bob's shoulder and he's seconds from drifting off to sleep. Bob has no idea how you can fall asleep to a horror film.

Fishing in his pocket while trying not to jostle Mikey too much, he squints at the text he receives from an unknown number.

\- take good care of my Mikeyway xoxo Frank

He looks up to where Frank is nonchalantly slung over Gerard and meets his eyes. Bob nods seriously and Frank replies with a smile. He then presses send and another text lights up Bob's screen.

\- Good. Cause if u don't i will hurt you in creative and very ouchy ways :)

Frank's look becomes pointed and Bob just salutes in return, before putting an arm around Mikey to draw him closer.

~

EPILOGUE

Mikey closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. He can feel the driving beat pulsing up through the soles of his feet, the tickle of the bass' reverberations in his chest, the pounding strobe light making the dark of his eyelids glow red. He smells the sweat, the electric excitement, the heady mixture of aftershave and musk that the crowd gives off when it's really riled up. Tipping his head back, he feels Bob's soft-scratchy beard against his cheek. He feels the grounding rhythm of a heartbeat against his back, his own answering in counterpoint, and lets his mind wander, knowing the arms around him will keep the rest of the crowd (the world) at bay.

He hadn't been looking for love in the Flea Pit – pretty much the opposite. It was his release, his escape from a boring 9-5 routine, from a life that didn't exactly suck these days, but definitely had its moments. That one jerk-off colleague who thought being deaf equalled being stupid and made it her mission to prove Mikey's ineptitude. The (luckily small) percentage of people who, when confronted with talking to him, gaped in awkward horror and couldn't get it together enough to read a damn note.

And those guys who'd cornered him outside the club that night. He'd seen the homophobic slurs on their lips. It was probably his girl jeans and eyeliner that marked his as their target, but it still hurt. It still brought back all the things Steve used to say: catty insults that he refused to repeat, that he claimed Mikey had misread.

Bob wasn't perfect. Objectively he knew that, and he thought back to all the stumbling mistakes that had been made in the first few weeks of knowing each other. Bob was trying so damn hard. And it had been hard to watch him fail and fail again, to have to explain the things that he wished he didn't have to explain.  
There had been some gut-bustingly hilarious sign language snafus, where Bob's face had gone redder than Mikey ever imagined possible. He was still far from fluent – pens and paper, texting and emails were still a big part of their lives – but he was getting there. Gerard wouldn't let him slack off their twice-weekly lessons.

But he had known from the beginning that Bob would never intentionally hurt him. He'd known before that night in the alley, watching Bob night after night as he sculpted and tailored the sonic landscape that allowed Mikey to escape, to be happy, to just be.

He feels Bob nuzzle at his neck and zones back in to the hypnotic beats throbbing through his body. He can feel their echo in Bob's rib cage, bring transmitted through his back and wrapping around him via Bob's arms. With a warm fuzzy feeling he realises that Bob and the music are one and the same.

He feels something flutter against his chest and looks down. Bob's hand is splayed against the glitter of his favourite unicorn t-shirt. It's in the sign for “I love you”.

Mikey twists around in his arms and, after pressing a kiss to Bob's jaw, whispers in his ear “I love you, too”.

THE END


End file.
